


Christmas Miracle

by Luthienberen



Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, First Time, Friendship, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 07:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17199179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/pseuds/Luthienberen
Summary: The first Christmas with Holmes after his resurrection was surreal for Watson.





	Christmas Miracle

**Author's Note:**

> A bleated entry for Day 7, of WAdvent at watsons_woes, Open Day, prompt [Food](https://watsons-woes.dreamwidth.org/1858674.html).

Our first Christmas together since Holmes fell into that dreadful chasm was surreal. Yet he never fell into the falls did he? Even so, for me he had and the Christmas celebrations in the three years had been empty.

The first year, the goose had been like ash in my mouth, the wine a flowing mockery of the roaring frothing falls and the pudding a pile of rubble and soil at the bottom of the accursed cauldron.

The second lunch was on my lonesome, in new rooms and no Mrs Hudson. I sat gazing at food I once relished and begged and bribed Holmes to devour. That year the food was bitter on the tongue and the smells haunting in the memories they conjured.

The third year, I had healed somewhat but my Christmas Lunch was small as I tried to settle my phantoms once and for all.

Now…now Holmes was returned and we were sitting down together at the table, the surface groaning under the weight of Mrs Hudson’s magnificent cooking. It was nearly unbelievable and a miracle in of itself.

The smells assaulted me, making me dizzy with hunger and hope even as the past crowded like ghosts about the heaped table. Trembling, I inhaled the aroma of roasted goose and for once it was not offensive, nor as I carved and passed Holmes a few slices – rather firmly I might add – did Holmes object.

His grey eyes instead were kind and understanding, the cold veneer gone from them. A sympathetic pain haunted his expression and I wondered at how many meals Holmes had missed or ate barely enough to survive. How had my friend fared without his Watson to cajole him when necessary?

As always Holmes read my thoughts and with his gaze locked on mine sampled the first slice of goose dripping with gravy. He savoured the food, licking his all too pale lips and dabbing them clean as was his wont.

He then solicitously poured my wine. In the ruby flow I caught a phantom of the Reichenbach Falls before Holmes was finished and placing the glass in my hand.

Lifting the glass I returned my gaze to his as I swallowed the rich wine. Ah, the grey eyes were stormy with emotion as if my actions had broken some kind of dam. Holmes leant across the table making me blink at his closeness. Before I could ask whatever was the matter, Holmes boldly kissed my wine covered lips.

My breath caught at the touch, his rough lips pressing hard yet clumsily against mine. Lest Holmes believe he had misjudged me, I put my glass down rather carelessly and gripped the back of Holmes neck, kissing him thoroughly.

All the lost years: the terror and grief at the realisation of his death; the anger and relief at his return, the years before when we had not spoken or even understood our feelings…all this I offered up in the hard press of our mouths, gentled by the tender kisses I afterwards deposited on his flushed cheeks.

At last I released Holmes and he fell back into his chair. His collar was askew from my rough handling and his upper lip turning red from the scratch of my moustache and his lips glistened with moisture. I dared not guess how my own appearance exposed our actions.

What could I say into the suddenly all too full silence but the obvious?

“Merry Christmas Holmes.”

Holmes smiled and his voice was brimming with promise, “Merry Christmas Watson.”

I laughed and giddy with renewed hope, I stretched my legs out under the table so they bumped his and was ridiculously relieved when Holmes did not withdraw but permitted the romantic gesture.

Thus fortified I dived into our Christmas lunch and ate goose which was no longer ash, but a bursting flavour upon my tongue and soothing balm to my soul. I devoured potatoes lathered in a rich gravy and a pudding full of sweetness, both of which I could now truly appreciate.

Four years after that nightmare I could finally relish a Christmas spread once more, for now I shared this marvellous meal with Holmes – a Holmes who had risked a kiss and started a new phase of our lives together.

Smiling across at my detective, who failed dreadfully in not smiling widely back at me, I silently thanked this Christmas miracle.


End file.
